


Dog Years

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur is simultaneously younger and older than he looks; Eames is verbose; and Cobb likes folk music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Years

Apparently, it wasn't enough for Arthur to be older than he looked; he had to be older than he was.

~~

Eames may have been exaggerating, just the tiniest bit; but that was no call for Arthur to plunk approximately half a tonne of documents in his lap.

“What's this, love?” Eames said, trying not to groan under the weight.

“Proof,” Arthur said, “that you are not now and have never been a Mossad agent.”

From the other side of the room, Ariadne blinked at them. “Do you really need that much paper to prove that?” And reproachfully, “Why did you have to print it all out? Do you realize how many trees you've just killed?”

Arthur looked blank. “Because killing _trees_ is supposed to make me feel bad.”

The papers spilled off Eames as he stood up. “Much as I appreciate the attention,” he said lightly, “may I second Ariadne's question? Does one small anecdote really need that much in way of--” Eames gestured, “proof?”

“It's impossible to prove a negative, Mr. Eames.” Arthur's eyes glinted. “By which I mean, it may require some extra effort.”

"Show-off," Ariadne stage-whispered, and Eames was hard-pressed not to smirk.

"But truly," Eames said, getting his rant into full strength, "don't you think it's pointless to go into all that effort because of one tiny, miniscule—"

"Lie?" Arthur suggested.

"Not what I meant to say at all," Eames said with great dignity.

"And yet that's exactly what it is." Arthur sat down, long legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

"I'll show you is and isn't," Eames muttered darkly and resolved to dig into Arthur's past until he found something to embarrass the guy. Something to ruffle him, shake his composure, teach him some humility. It would be doing Arthur a favor, really.

The fact that Arthur would look devilishly handsome blushing never even crossed Eames' mind, honestly.

~~

Now, Eames wasn't a point man or anything of that caliber, but he had his resources. He was certain soon enough he'd have his own little list of facts to rub Arthur's nose in.

He'd called Griggs. Griggs was good at this, led (amazingly enough) a legit career and a thoroughly boring family life, and Eames trusted she was willing to grant him a few favors to keep it that way.

However, when she called, Eames was rather surprised at her vehemence – nay, outright aggression.

“Settle down, love.” he said. “Why don't we sort this out calmly?”

“Don't tell me to settle,” Griggs said, harried. “The guy's history is one blatant lie after another. I swear, Eames, if you set this up as some kind of prank-”

“I'd never!” Well, hardly ever. “Just tell me what you found,” Eames said in his most soothing voice, the kind he used to calm angry marks or thoroughly irritate Arthur.

“Well, he finished high-school at sixteen,” Griggs said. Eames hummed in utter lack of surprise. “Fair enough,” Griggs acknowledged, “people do. What they don't do is go on to finish a doctoral thesis before they're eighteen.”

“Now, there--” Eames said, and was rudely interrupted by Griggs.

“They don't,” she said with some finality. “Trust me, I know the bureaucracy. Can't be done. And that's beside the fact that apparently he was simultaneously a part of some deep-security bullshit I can't get into.”

“Can't you, now,” Eames said. “And here I thought there was a reason I paid you.”

“You aren't paying me, you're blackmailing me,” Griggs said flatly. “And it's more than my job's or my life's worth to get into that, so forget about it.”

Eames weighted the facts. The whole thing, admittedly, was only a bit of a game. Hardly worth losing important resources over. “Now, there,” he said, in what he thought was a reasonable tone of voice, “I wouldn't ask you to risk yourself, would I?”

“Yes, you would,” Griggs said and hung up. Though she didn't say it, the word "asshole" was strongly implied.

Eames sighed. She was right, but that was no reason to be rude. He forgave her, however, since she did send him all her log files, and as it happened Eames has privileged access to a number of places he quite frankly shouldn't.

“My, Arthur,” Eames muttered, opening a laptop. “If you aren't an enigma wrapped in a mystery contained in a fine, fine suit.”

The first few searches yield nothing. Eames furrowed his brow and went further, from the combat training experiments to the later ones, when the dreaming field became sufficiently declassified for universities to pitch in.

“In we go, sweetheart,” he muttered at the computer, entering a password he hoped was still valid. He got it about six months ago, from a government worker who was (if Eames was any judge – and he was) still waiting for Eames to call him back. Eames' knowledge of computers may be limited to sending email and downloading porn, but who needs to understand computers when he could work the people who do?

He was in luck, and there it was: an experiment in accelerated learning through dream time. That ought to account for the Ph.D., and there was Arthur's data, sitting there vulnerable for anyone to lay eyes on.

Well, since he was already there, he thoroughly intended to go through a stroll of such data as what Arthur's middle name was, and perhaps even more entertaining tidbits. However, the first factoid Eames ran into made him shut the laptop in pure disbelief.

He opened it again, and changed the password before he left. There was such a thing as privacy, after all.

~~

Eames couldn't very well just spring this on Arthur. It needed careful timing, it did, a bit of finesse.

He decided on a roundabout approach, to start. So when next he was alone with Arthur, he sat next to him and set about bothering him thoroughly. No reason Eames couldn't have some fun while he's at it.

Arthur ruthlessly slapped Eames' hand away from the comfortable perch it found atop Arthur's upper arm. “That's the third time today,” Arthur groused without even looking at him. “What will it take for you to leave me alone?”

There was an opening if Eames had ever heard one. “Well, a question has been troubling me recently,” he said with great dignity.

“No, Eames, there is no Santa Clause,” Arthur said, still engrossed in whatever it was he was doing, how could whatever that was be more interesting than Eames?

“Actually,” Eames said, being the better man and ignoring Arthur's childishness (which was to be understood, really, he ought to cut the poor dear a little slack), “I wanted to ask you what your doctorate was in?”

That, at least, got Arthur's attention. “Who says I have one?”

Eames smirked. “Oh, I have my sources.”

“And they include high security government data bases?” Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. Eames felt a warmth in his stomach; an eyebrow was good, that meant Arthur was truly involved in the conversation.

Eames beamed at him. “Now, I could have just gone through a list of WPI alumni,” he said reproachfully. “I don't know why you always assume the worst of me.”

“One, because I'm not on the official list.” Arthur looked at him steadily. “Two, I _would_ have assumed you were just talking out of your ass like you usually do--” oh, that stung, it did -- “but the university isn't a likely guess and no one here knows about it but Cobb. As for the rest of the list – categorically or alphabetically?”

“By date, if you would be so kind,” Eames said. “I'm touched that you remember my doings so well.” Arthur made a rude noise. “But I would settle for you answering my original question.”

Arthur paused, and – was Eames imagining? No, it was there; a beginning of a smile, etched on the very edges of Arthur's lips. “Guess.”

Architecture would be predictable. So would art and engineering. “History,” Eames said.

Arthur nodded with something near approval. “Good guess, but no. Economy.”

That worked; sensible, reasonable Arthur, looking at the unpredictable collection of forces that made up the universe, retreating into a series of models that were completely inaccurate in and of themselves and yet coupled with a keen mind and a dependable intuition, could bring everything together. But it wouldn't do to show his admiration. Eames said lightly, “That must be dreadfully boring, dear.”

“You would say that.” Arthur looked at him for a moment more, then turned back to whatever he was working on.

That would not do. “I also discovered one interesting fact,” Eames continued. “I should have known from the dates of the experiment and-” best not to mention Griggs by name-- “some previous information I had, but as it was I did not realize until I saw it there, printed black on white.”

“Yes, my middle name is Aethelbert,” Arthur deadpanned.

“Ah, but I was referring to your age, darling Arthur,” Eames said, wagging a finger at him. “While I had known you were fully in the bloom of your youth--”

Arthur didn't let him finish, which in Eames' opinion was rude. “So how old did you think I was?”

Second guessing all the time, Arthur, Eames scolded him mentally. “Well, certainly less than thirty. But not by quite as much.”

“I don't look twenty,” Arthur said, factually.

“It's the suits,” Eames said, trying to be helpful. “And the hair. And the demeanor, not that I don't find you perfectly enchanting. And the way you walk--”

Arthur waved him away. “So you found out. Great. Now let me work.”

If Eames huffed in annoyance as he left the room (to do his reading on the mark's mother-in-law, thank you very much) he could hardly be blamed for it, in his opinion.

~~

"I wouldn't have thought it would bother you that much," Arthur told him some time later.

Eames harrumphed. He wouldn't say he was bothered, precisely. Perhaps slightly flustered. "I wouldn't have thought you missed my attentions so, Arthur," he shot back.

"I miss peace and quiet," Cobb said, "but does that help me?"

"Be quiet, you procreated voluntarily," Eames told him, "whereas I was left ignorant of the fact that I was spending my time courting an _infant_."

For a moment, Eames was sure that Arthur would reveal his true age by sticking his tongue out at him. Alas, he merely said mildly, "It's good you're not given to exaggeration at _all_ , Eames."

"Not in the least," Eames agreed.

Cobb groaned and clutched his head. "I have to spend the entire day with _toddlers_ ," he said. "And then after that I have to go home and deal with my kids."

Eames was not in the least sympathetic. "Well, you're a fine one to talk.You're the one who started Extraction Kindergarten."

Arthur got up. "All right, this is getting ridiculous. Eames, come with me."

Eames rose, apprehensive. "Darling, showing me that you're anatomically correct won't help." He considered. "Not that it won't be perfectly delightful, of course. It's the legal status I'm concerned about."

"Eames." Arthur's voice was perfectly level, as would be the knife he'd stick in Eames if Eames didn't shut up and follow him. Eames was quite impressed at how Arthur managed to convey all that by simply standing absolutely still.

~~

Eames plopped into a chair, wincing at the lack of grace. His bloody bones were creaking again. "All right, then, what was it you wanted to show me?"

"Just an overview." Arthur smoothed his hair back, even though it wasn't out of place in the slightest. There was more gray in it now than Eames remembered. "Here," he said, and slid a file at Eames.

Eames skimmed it, and hummed. "Looks about right."

Arthur murmured something noncommittal. "How are you?" he asked, apropos of nothing.

Eames considered. "Not too bad. The old hip is being itself, sadly, and the less said about my lungs the better--"

"I told you about smoking," Arthur said.

"—But not too shabby, all told." Eames gracefully ignored Arthur's rude interruption. "And you, my dear? Back not troubling you, I hope?"

"No reason it should," Arthur said, "being as I'm still twenty. Try to remember what's wrong with your hip, exactly."

Eames blinked. The room shifted, and Eames was no longer as old as Father William.

"That's a nasty trick to play on a man," he said, at length.

"I needed to get a point across." Arthur leaned back in his chair, and Eames allowed himself – with no small measure of relief – to enjoy the fact that Arthur was, well, Arthur, smooth and young and perfect in every way.

(While Eames did not like sentimentality, it seemed on occasion to be quite enamored of him.)

"What? That dreams mess with your mind? Thank you, yes, I have been working with Dom Cobb for quite a while now." Eames knew that he was unnecessarily snippy, which was usually Arthur's role in their relationship, but he'd been more than a bit unnerved.

"I meant to tell you something about time in dreams," Arthur said. "What's the longest you've been under?"

Eames thought about it. "On the outside, a day and a half for--" he waved his hand. "Something too tedious to mention." Also top secret, but wasn't that the very definition of tedious? "On the inside, the inception job."

"So that would amount to about a month."

Eames nodded, wary. "Give or take."

"Right." Arthur stood up and looked down at Eames, who was perfectly aware of the cheap psychological trickery Arthur was attempting here. It still worked, blast it. "I spent a little under two years in layered dreaming, Eames. That's two years on the outside."

Eames blinked. Finally he croaked, "That's not possible." Accelerated learning or no, they couldn't keep a man dreaming for all that time.

"Not all the time," Arthur acknowledged. "They woke me up every day to eat something, exercise, shower and sleep. Really sleep, I mean."

Eames nodded, slowly. "But that still means you spent, what?"

"Fifteen hours a day," Arthur said.

"Right, fifteen hours a day dreaming, times twenty that's--" He glanced at Arthur. "You said layered."

Arthur nodded minutely.

Eames didn't bother with the mental arithmetic. "A helluva long time, that amounts to." His voice was heavier than he meant it to be.

Arthur quirked a half-smile at him. "I was married, you know. Or did you miss that while you were snooping?" His tone was a little pointed, which Eames couldn't really begrudge him. Eames shrugged helplessly. "It only lasted about six months, and that inside the dreams. In the real world," Arthur's hands spread open, "I was married and divorced in less than five minutes."

"Fuck," Eames said, heartfelt. There was a silence until Eames couldn't help himself and asked, "So how old are you, really?"

"Define 'really'." Arthur's gaze was of the armor-piercing variety. "That's not rhetorical, Eames. You have to define it, and stick to it. I'm really twenty. I'll grant my teen years contained more life experiences than most, but that's what's real."

"Experiences are real," Eames said softly.

"I never said otherwise." Arthur looked aside. "When we started the experiment, there were five of us. I was the only one who made it through the whole thing. Two dropped out, one had to be kept out by force, and one went mad."

Eames followed Arthur's gaze to where a lying figure appeared when he wasn't looking. The boy looked painfully young. Eames walked over and took the boy's hand in his. The skin was nearly translucent. Eames fancied he could nearly see the bones through it.

"They tried to cancel the program halfway through," Arthur said, distant. "I nearly killed them trying to get in."

Eames smoothed a thumb over the boy's hand. His Arthur, yes, he didn't even need to imagine the Arthur he knew kicking ass and taking names because he'd seen it happening. But this poor little thing... "You staggered like a newborn foal," Eames said softly. "And had all the strength of something made of toothpicks and tissue paper."

"Which is more than you'd think," Arthur said, suddenly right behind him. Eames put the boy's hand back carefully and turned to face Arthur.

(He couldn't call that miserable thing lying there Arthur, because the thought of that happening to Arthur turned his stomach.)

"You've made your point excruciatingly clear," Eames said, quiet. "Shall we wake now? I find I have no taste for dreaming at the moment."

"You mean, that thing we do for a living?" Arthur's voice was wry.

Eames made himself smile. "That very thing, yes. Come, then, I think that's our cue," when he heard a distorted, far off voice singing, " _but love, this longing, is a voice on the wind_ ", and opened his eyes.

~~

"Remind me," Eames grumbled as he pulled out his IV, "to stop letting Cobb pick our musical cues."

"It's not that bad." Arthur winced as he pressed a clean cotton ball to his arm. "At least it's not the folk version of 'Comfortably Numb' again."

"That is a point in its favor, yes." Eames regarded Arthur and sighed. "All right, my dove, you've won. I haven't the faintest idea what to do about you now."

Arthur leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. "Who said you have do anything?" His voice was deceptively mild.

"Well, I--" Eames shut up and sat down, dragging a hand through his hair. He was feeling uncharacteristically weak.

Arthur, regarded him. "Why, Mr. Eames," he said in what failed miserably to be a glib tone of voice. "I never knew you cared."

Eames held his gaze. "Well, it wasn't for lack of bloody trying on my part," he muttered.

Arthur sat down next to him. "You do realize, Eames, that you're very nearly impossible to take seriously." Arthur's nimble fingers brushed through Eames' hair. "I'm pretty sure you cultivate it."

"I do, actually," Eames admitted, and dropped his head to encourage Arthur to continue. " _You_ are meant to see past that, though. You can't tell me I underestimated you, love, my heart won't take the stress."

Arthur regarded him with amused patience. "And then you wonder why I can't take you seriously."

"But I'm always serious," Eames protested. "Serious as a bloody heart attack."

He had to stop talking, then, because Arthur was kissing him. Eames' hands rose of their own accord to clutch Arthur's shoulders, to pull Arthur closer to him.

By God, he was never letting go.

Inches away, Arthur looked at him. "I meant every single word," Eames said, and he'll never know why his voice went so soft right then, like something lost and bewildered. "You should have known that."

"I do now." That – Eames felt it with a warmth in the base of his spine, that slight rasp in Arthur's voice. From a single kiss, imagine that.

He took one hand off Arthur's shoulder to cup his face, brushing Arthur's cheek with his thumb. "You should practice saying that. At least the first two syllables."

Arthur raised both eyebrows. "That's a bit fast." But he stayed put and made no move to leave, to Eames' strong approval.

"Not in the least, love." Eames punctuated that with a kiss. "After all, how long have we spent together inside that dream you just concocted?"

"Actually, about five minutes on the inside," Arthur said dryly. "Our being old was part of the premise of the dream. We didn't actually live through that, so your argument would be void even if dream time counted the same way."

"But it does." Eames wasn't sure why he was pressing the point. It seemed to matter, somehow. "It does, or you would for all intents and purposes be barely out of your teens. You're not."

Arthur looked at him, steady. "This why I can't take you seriously," he said, quiet. "You, you're outrageous. You say the most over-the-top things you can think about."

"I still mean them, at least where you're concerned." Eames lowered his hand to pinch Arthur's ass gently, reveling in the sensation when Arthur's aborted jump pressed them closer together. "And you're changing the subject."

Suddenly, gratifyingly, Arthur relaxed in Eames' arms. "What do you want me to do?"

"Have filthy sex with me," Eames said immediately. "For the next fifty years or more."

Arthur's face burrowed into his shoulder. "Just filthy sex?"

Eames sighed, put upon. "You know perfectly well what I mean. Do try to make up your mind - I ask you to marry me and you demur, I ask for filthy sex and suddenly you're demure. It's like you don't even like me."

"Yes, and that's why I kissed you." Arthur nipped at his throat lightly. "That and your _huge_ ," he paused, "vocabulary."

"Don't _toy_ , Arthur." Eames was not above whining if he thought that would get him where he wanted. "I'm dying of longing, love, it will all end in tears and mingled shrubbery growing over our graves."

"Promises, promises," Arthur muttered, but he grabbed Eames hand and led him out of the room.

"Where are you going?" Cobb asked as they were heading out.

"To ensure a pleasant and fruitful working relationship," Arthur called, blank-faced, as he unlocked the front door.

"I love your way with euphemisms," Eames whispered into Arthur's ear as they sat in the cab Arthur ordered for them. Arthur smiled enigmatically and didn't respond.

~~

Maybe they should have stayed in the dream, where it would have physically possible for Eames to kiss Arthur for the next hundred years or so. As it was, he made his best attempt at it but had to break off – first to breathe, then because Arthur was pushing him away to get at his clothes.

When he'd thought about it, which was embarrassingly often if Eames could be bothered to feel embarrassed about it, he'd imagined himself seducing Arthur, sliding an unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders while kissing him in something like a distraction.

It made Eames wonder, a bit. "You've probably done everything ten times over," he said, hushed, as Arthur made short work of Eames' belt. "To think I thought I could teach you a thing or two."

"Pretty probable, actually," Arthur said, distracted by Eames' zipper. "I didn't have that much time to play. You might recall I had an advanced degree to work on. Now be quiet and let me concentrate."

At this Eames was the soul of obedience, unless one should count the muffled gasps that were the unavoidable result of Arthur's (beautiful, extremely talented) mouth getting to work where Eames wanted it most. He had to forcibly restrain himself from grabbing Arthur's hair and his gorgeous, incomparable mouth.

Arthur paused in his work. "Do you ever run out of adjectives?" he asked, and that was when Eames realized he may have been saying that out loud.

"My praise for you is endless, darling," he said. Breathlessly, but could anyone blame him? "Now get back to what you were doing so I can praise you some more."

Arthur smiled and got to his feet, and Eames realized with a shock that Arthur was still fully dressed, shirt buttoned and tucked in. He still had his shoes on, for crying out loud, while Eames – he checked himself – had his pants bunching around his ankles, his shirt hanging off his shoulders, and one sock mysteriously missing.

"This is unacceptable," he growled, and warned Arthur with a look to stand still while he was working. Arthur replied with the best bored look he could manage while his erection tented his well-made slacks.

Now, that was an inspiring sight. Eames had half a mind to leave him like that, unzip him and be done with it, but his hands were hungry for naked skin. He settled for taking Arthur's shirt off, grateful that years of practice made him quick with buttons, and throwing him down on the bed where Eames could nuzzle his crotch with ease.

Arthur made the best noises, too, just as Eames knew he would. When Eames mouthed Arthur's erection through the cloth of his pants, Arthur out-and-out keened, and Eames' heart (not to mention his cock) grew three sizes at least.

"We're only just beginning," he said softly.

"Well, we'd better be getting on with it," Arthur said through gritted teeth, "or you're getting these pants dry-cleaned."

Eames felt his eyes widen. He hadn't realized he was getting quite that much of a reaction. He took Arthur's pants of post-haste, with little to no help from Arthur himself who was growling and squirming into Eames' hand whenever it passed within an inch of his cock. "Patience, love," he clucked.

"To hell with patience," Arthur all but snarled. "I've been waiting _years_ for this."

"And who's fault is that, hm?" Eames meant to gloat further, but was distracted by the sight of Arthur's cock in all his naked glory.

"Be smug later," Arthur panted. "Come on. I need you."

If that went on, well, Eames was rather pleased he already had his own pants off. Arthur's cock was mouthwatering, but Eames hated to be predictable. He flipped Arthur over to his back – gently, telegraphing his moves a mile ahead because being kicked in the head might put a serious dent in his moves (and also in his head) – and bent to lick and kiss at it, just above the swell of Arthur's buttocks.

Arthur, oh, Arthur was wonderful, swearing and grinding into the sheet like the loveliest wanton a man could wish for. "Eames," he gasped, "Eames, if you don't touch me--"

Eames doubted this was what Arthur meant when he moved his mouth downwards and licked into Arthur's ass, but it made him stop threatening Eames, which he counted as a win.

Arthur was unnaturally still, actually, so Eames paused and ventured, "Okay, love?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes." There was a strain in Arthur's voice, as though he was holding on to sanity by his teeth. "Please."

Because he couldn't stand for Arthur to beg, Eames resumed his position until Arthur started wiggling again, this time with great urgency.

"Come on," he said, breathless. "Eames. I want you. Come on."

Eames thought about teasing, about making Arthur say it, but thought better of that. "Equipment, darling?"

Arthur froze again, and this was not a good stillness. "Uh." He swallowed. "I don't think I actually have anything. But--"

Eames shoved him down, pinning him to the mattress but sliding hand underneath to jack Arthur's cock, the other hand going to probe where Arthur wanted him, apparently quite badly because a single finger slid in without anything like resistance.

"What-- I-- Oh." It was a surprisingly small sound, given the spasms that shook Arthur's body after. He calmed and drew a ragged breath.

Eames slid out his now-slick hand and went about working two fingers into Arthur. That required a little more time, but Eames was nothing if not patient.

Arthur's eyes were closed. "I still don't have a condom."

Eames snorted. "Do give me some credit, precious." He nudged his pants toward Arthur. "Front pocket."

"Call me that again and you'll be missing a finger," Arthur said, but he fished the condom out, opened it and waved it at Eames, who jutted his hips forward.

"Get for me, won't you?" he said with utmost sweetness. "My hands are a bit busy. Including my apparently endangered finger."

"You're obscene." The way Arthur drew out that word ought to be outlawed, Eamed though in a haze of desire. Maybe letting Arthur touch him in this state wasn't the best of ideas, but Eames was dying for Arthur's hands on him (long-fingered and elegant, oh, Eames would write sonnets to those hands if he weren't a bloody awful poet) and he thrust into them shamelessly, groaning with extravagance.

Arthur shoved him away, so it served him right when the hand Eames as using to explore him was jostled and Arthur made an unhappy sound. "No one to blame but yourself," Eames whispered in his ear as he eased his way inside.

Arthur shuddered and made no reply.

Eames closed his eyes and rested his head between Arthur's shoulder blades, still because if he moved this would all be over and he wanted this to last for a lifetime but he'd settle for ten minutes, please God.

"That," Arthur mumbled, "was the longest run-on sentence I've ever heard during sex. Or at all."

"You're far too coherent, love," Eames said, a little muzzy himself. "I must not be doing my job properly," and he thrust into Arthur, slow and gentle but Arthur still shook like he was about to come apart.

Or maybe just come. Eames liked that option.

"It looks like," he said, panting, "there are some advantages to a twenty-year-old body, doesn't it?" He groped for Arthur's cock – not hard yet, but by God it was getting there.

"Shut up," Arthur sobbed. "Shut up and fuck me."

Something white-hot went through Eames' spine, and when it passed he was holding Arthur's hips in a way he knew would leave bruises. Fuck that, he thought, he'd kiss them better later, lick them until Arthur shoved him away or, better yet, grabbed Eames' head and shoved his dick down his throat.

Under the circumstances, it was odd that this was image to spark his climax, but in Eames' defense he'd all but trained himself to come on that thought.

Beneath him, Arthur wasn't even all the way hard yet, so Eames followed on the train of his last mental image, flopped Arthur back onto his back and did his level best to suck Arthur's brain out through his dick.

Arthur's eyes had a glazed-over look by the time Eames was finished. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then brushed his fingers over Eames' lower lip. Eames decided to take it as a hint, wriggled upward and kissed Arthur thoroughly.

"So, I hope the filthy sex meets your approval," Eames said, still a little out of breath. With a sudden pang, he thought about his lungs in the dream. Maybe it was time to quit smoking after all.

"Mmm." Arthur rolled unto his back and stretched like a cat in the sun. Eames feasted his eyes. "I wouldn't really call that filthy," he said, sleepy and content so that Eames had to rub his cheek against Arthur's stomach. This led Arthur to scratch Eames' back, which was not the intended outcome but so perfectly welcome that Eames was nearly distracted from what Arthur said.

"There was rimming," he pointed out. "That's considered filthy in thirty-nine states at least." But Arthur was smiling at him with so much happiness that Eames didn't really have it in him to argue about anything. "Well, have it your way."

"Thanks, I will," Arthur informed him, and that was so deliciously right that Eames had no choice but to curl up beside Arthur and hug him until his bones squeaked.

He looked up when he realized Arthur was staring at him. "You.You are made of mush," Arthur said, pointing a finger at him.

"Thank you for noticing," Eames drawled, because really, _now_ he could tell?

Arthur had the good grace to look embarrassed. "But it's just a front. You make everyone think you're a jerk with a heart of gold, but really you're just a jerk."

"To most people, yeah." Eames wasn't ashamed of that. It was a job skill, for crying out loud. "You, on the other hand, make everyone think you're rapidly approaching your thirties."

"So do you," Arthur retorted.

Eames clapped a hand to his chest. "Beloved! You must know I'm not a day over thirty. Thirty-one," he amended at Arthur's raised eyebrow. It didn't seem to help. "Thirty-two?"

"Thirty-three," Arthur said dryly. "Don't forget I've read your dossier."

"A man ought to have some secrets."

"Then a man should keep them better," Arthur said without a hint of compunction.

Eames knew that he was smiling like an idiot, but he couldn't help himself. "Not from you, love. Never from you."

Arthur sighed, and snuggled closer. "Yeah, well, I'd tell you anything." He raised his face to look at Eames. "And if you ever tell anyone I said that, I'll kill you five times over and then do it for real."

"I'd never."

And the funny thing was, he really never would.


End file.
